


Sword Fighting

by parsnipit



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Prince being genuinely good at sword fighting, and wanting to show off for his boyfriends, while also sharing his interests with them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Prince attempts to teach his boyfriends about the intricacies of sword fighting, with limited success.





	Sword Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: none that i can think of, but if you need absolutely anything tagged please let me know!

“It’s all about your stance,” Prince says, strutting in front of them like some kind of overgrown bantam rooster. Logic thinks it’s almost endearing. Almost. “Your weight must always be balanced, no matter how you stand, or you’ve already lost the fight. It is also about attitude—you must go into a fight with a strong sense of confidence, or—”

“You _do_ realize who you’re talking to, right, Sir Senseless?” Anxiety says, giving Prince a rather unamused look from his place perched on the porch railing.

Prince raises an imperious eyebrow at Anxiety. “So I do. You must learn to act confident, and feeling confident will follow shortly. In the meantime—Logan, come here. You’re going to learn most quickly.”

Logic steps off of the porch to stand in front of Prince, accepting the tree branch that they have, for some unfathomable reason, decided to use as a mock sword. “You realize we could have just conjured up wooden swords, right?” he says, turning the branch over in his hands.

Prince blinks at him, and Logic is going to assume that no, he did not realize that. Oh, well. Not everyone can be the smart one. “Never mind that,” says Prince. “The stick will do just fine until you’re more advanced.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. Now, put your weight onto the balls of your feet and keep your legs shoulder-width apart. Turn your right foot out. Does that feel comfortable?”

“No, not particularly.”

Prince hums and steps up behind him, nudging Logic’s heels apart with the toe of one boot. He sets his hands on Logic’s shoulders and straightens them, then stands back. “Is that better?”

“Sure.”

“Are you certain? Because this won’t work if you don’t feel comfortable with your stance,” Prince says.

Logic focuses on his body for a moment—something which he seldom likes to do—and considers his sense of balance and his center of gravity. He wouldn’t say the stance is entirely comfortable. He doesn’t have built-up muscle in all the same places Prince does, after years of sword fighting, and he doubts they’ll be forming soon. In the meantime, however, he doesn’t feel as though he’s going to tip over if a breeze blows at him, which he supposes is a good thing.

“While it is not perfectly comfortable, it is probably suited to the practice you want to accomplish,” Logic says.

Prince frowns, considering that answer, and then, to Logic’s relief, seems to accept it. “Okay. Now, the stance you’re going to be learning is one of the stances for the medieval longsword. In German, it’s called the _Pflug_.”

Logic grimaces. He doesn’t enjoy the sound of the word. “And in English?”

“The plow.”

Better. “How do I do it?”

“Lower the stick so that the hilt—the part closest to you—is level with your hip. Point the tip up so that it’s angled at my chest. Keep a loose grip with your left hand so the sword can turn if it’s struck. You don’t want to be entirely rigid. Fighting is as much about giving as it is taking.”

“If only he displayed such noble sentiments in day-to-day life,” Anxiety murmurs to Morality.

Prince glares at the two of them. “You’re next,” he says, pointing at Anxiety.

“Sure thing, hotshot,” Anxiety says.

“Ah-hah.” Prince straightens dramatically, his chest puffing out. “You admit it at last. You think I’m hot.”

Anxiety rolls his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“This is growing uncomfortable,” Logic says, struggling not to adjust his grip on the stick. It’s nowhere near as heavy as a genuine sword, but holding it in a singular position as his boyfriends bicker is still remarkably unpleasant. “May we continue?”

“But of course, if only Princess Pout over there would hold his tongue,” Prince says, turning back to Logic and—thank god—missing the way Anxiety sticks his tongue out. “Now, the plow stance is versatile. It offers significant protection while allowing for most attacks. Here, let me borrow the stick and I’ll demonstrate a few for you.”

Logic watches with—purely intellectual, mind you—interest as Prince moves through several attacks. He somehow manages to make the stick look elegant, and his feet move against the ground as though he’s dancing. It’s a fascinating display. _Not unlike,_ Logic thinks, _the mating displays of several species of birds._

But now is not the time to think about that. Now is the time to think about sword fighting.

That—that actually doesn’t sound any better. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t understand sexual innuendos as well as he does.

Once Prince has finished demonstrating, he guides Logic through a few of the movements. They don’t feel natural or graceful, as Prince made them look, but he understands that these things come in time—and with lots of practice. He can’t expect to simply be as brilliant as Prince on his first try.

At the very least, however, it is some consolation that Anxiety performs more terribly than him.

“You are going to be learning the _vom dach,”_ Prince says. “The roof.”

“The roof?” Anxiety scoffs. “What kind of a name is that?”

“Oh, as though _you_ have any right to judge,” Prince says. “Now, then—”

Prince doesn’t bother with instructing Anxiety. He manhandles him into position, and although Anxiety grumbles, he allows himself to be manipulated. His stance starts as Logic’s did—feet shoulder-width apart, one foot turned out, weight centered—but he keeps slouching, as though his shoulders could defend his stomach if they were low enough.

“Tsk. Stand up straight.” Prince puts a hand on the small of his back and presses, until Anxiety is standing straighter than Logic has ever seen him—and his shoulders are still hunched, until Prince straightens them out. “Better.”

“This is stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Yeah, well you’re—”

“Boys,” Morality says, leveling them both with A Look.

Huffing, Prince turns back to Anxiety and shoves the stick into his hands. “Just do the thing so we can move on, already.”

“You know, I don’t _have_ to do the thing for you to move on. You don’t have to teach me anything,” Anxiety says.

“Of course I do. Now, arms up. Hold the sword—uh, stick over your head.”

“What.”

“Go on. No, not horizontally—and don’t rest it on your shoulder. Angle it at, like—Lo, what’s that one angle? The one that’s not horizontal but not vertical either?”

“You mean the multitude of angles that are not strictly one hundred and eighty degrees?” Logic says.

“Yeah.”

“There are a multitude of them. To which are you referring?”

“I dunno, you’re the mathematician.”

“Perhaps if you demonstrated,” Logic suggests.

Prince takes the stick back from Anxiety and holds it over his head at a forty-five degree angle. “Like this,” he says.

“That would be approximately forty-five degrees,” Logic says.

“Yes. So hold it at a forty-five degree angle, Ann,” Prince says, handing the stick back to him.

Anxiety grudgingly does as he’s told, and then attempts to mimic Prince’s maneuvers as he demonstrates several attacks.

“The roof stance is a warding stance,” Prince says, frowning as Anxiety fails—yet again—to follow through on an attack move. “It easily flows into the other stances, so you must know how to step with it. You need to be more aggressive with your movements.”

Anxiety lowers the stick, sighing, and shrinks into himself. “It’s not going to work. I suck at this.”

“No you don’t,” Prince says. “It just takes a little bit of time. Try again.”

“Princey, come on. I can’t—”

“Okay, fine. We’ll try something else. You’re not an offensive side—well, in combat, anyway—but a defensive one, so perhaps a defensive stance would suit you better. We’ll try the _Posta di Coda lunga distesa.”_

“The what.”

“In Italian, it’s the Long Lying Tail. It’s a rather deceptive stance, so I don’t use it much, but mayhap you’ll find it more useful. Hold the hilt down by your hip and angle it back, but keep the short edge facing your opponent so you can strike forward, if you need to. Maintain the forty-five degree angle, though. There. That’s nice. Does it feel more to your liking?”

Anxiety hesitates, shifting the stick awkwardly in his grip. “It’s better, I guess.”

“Good. Now, try a few counters—watch me.”

Prince guides Anxiety through a few defensive moves. He picks up these moves up with much more speed than he had the offensive ones, Logic notices with satisfaction, and when the two of them finish he actually looks pleased. It doesn’t stop him from offering Prince a scathing comment as he goes to sit on the porch railing again, but the proud gleam in Prince’s eyes remains.

“You next, Patton,” Prince says, gesturing to Morality, who springs eagerly onto the lawn. “You will be learning the _alber.”_

“Oh, and what does that mean?” Morality asks, clasping his hands together and bouncing earnestly on his toes.

“The fool.”

“Oh.”

“But never fear—’tis a lying name for a lying stance,” Prince says, nudging Morality’s feet into the proper position and handing him the stick. “Hold it down, so the hilt is at hip level, between your legs. The tip needs to point out and at the floor. It’s an inviting stance—see how it leaves your throat and chest and stomach exposed? That means your enemy is going to try to take advantage of it, so you’ll have to be ready to bring your sword up in a counter as soon as they do, alright?”

“O _-kay,”_ Morality says, eyes bright. “Show me how.”

And Prince does. Morality, despite his blatant excitement, is an earnest and determined student. Prince seems pleased with his progress, although in spite of that—or perhaps because of it—he’s stricter with Morality’s movements.

“Watch your feet,” he says, as Morality steps through a forward strike. “Don’t get them so close together or you’ll trip.”

“Come on, son. Don’t be such a _stickler_ for the rules,” Morality says, waggling the sword-stick in Prince’s direction.

Prince groans and snatches the stick away. “That’s enough for today, I think.”

“But I thought that in order to get good at anything, you really had to _stick_ with it.”

Logic drags a hand down his face. “Are you serious?”

“Now, Logan, don’t go _sticking up_ for him,” Morality says, his the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth in a pleased little grin. “That’ll make this two against one, and that’s a _sticky_ situation for me to be in.”

“I’m going to cry,” Prince announces, tossing the stick into one of the lawn chairs and ducking into the house before Morality can speak again.

Morality grabs Logic’s hand, and Anxiety’s, and together the three of them slip back into their house. Logic glances back once, and only once, at the place where the grass has been torn away by their footsteps in practice. He feels an odd sense of satisfaction—one he usually doesn’t get from physical activity.

But, he supposes, he was learning something, and he was with his boyfriends, so that automatically makes everything worthwhile.


End file.
